


Everything I Could Never Tell You

by citiesandlights



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, and harry comes up with just the solution, and kisses, and touches, but louis just can't, harry needs louis to tell him he loves him, just a gentle little scene, lots of fluff, lots of love, they both need an understanding greater than what they have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:24:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4443314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citiesandlights/pseuds/citiesandlights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis doesn't know how to express to Harry how much he loves him and Harry just wants to help. For them, love comes in the form of cookies and tea and paint on skin and silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything I Could Never Tell You

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so I'm just giving a short oneshot format a chance. This is just a small blurb that popped into my head. Comments and reviews are greatly appreciated, I'm always looking to make myself better! I hope you enjoy!

Harry shrugged off his long black coat; they'd barely been home two minutes before Louis rushed off to his studio, slamming the door shut behind him. He hated listening to Louis after bad shows; having to listen to him stomp around and throw about hard-worked-on pieces. He wanted to tell him that they didn't matter, that his art was beautiful and sold perfectly well. But he knew it would be fruitless for him to do so. Louis was hurt and he dealt with his hurt by channeling it into anger. 

He loosened the black tie around his neck and moved to their tiny kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove for when Louis would exhaust himself and come out to Harry needing love and wordlessly begging for attention that Harry would gladly give to him. His eyes trailed to a piece that Louis had done just for them when they'd first moved in together, two hands positioned in a way that resembled a knot of rope. He treasured that painting, every time they fought or he was feeling upset all he had to do was take a look at that simple picture and know that Louis was here to stay. They were knotted together beautifully; knotted in a way Harry never imagined he could be with another human being. Especially not someone as incredible as his boyfriend was.

When the kettle whistled he stepped forward and prepared two mugs, shoving some slice-and-bake chocolate chip cookies in the oven because baking sweets were a favorite aroma of Louis'. He just needed to make their tiny home as comfortable and cozy as possible. He flipped on an old movie, something pretty and black and white, and shut the curtains to block out the freezing December rain pattering against the window. Then he settled down on the patched up sofa and curled up in a blanket, waiting for Louis to run himself down on low fuel. There weren't any more smashing sounds, which was a good sign. 

After a while Louis peeped his head out, eyes red and puffy and his cheeks flushed. His once nicely quiffed up hair was in pieces about his head and paint splatters were all over his suit. Harry just gave him a relaxed smile, the tea and cookies on the coffee table, opening his arms to invite Louis into them so they could cuddle under the blanket. Louis sniffled silently and slowly made his way over to him, folding his body up onto Harry's lap. Harry enveloped his arms and the blanket around his boyfriend and he kissed his hair. They didn't say anything at first. Harry knew better than to force Louis into talking and Louis just needed to cool down for a few moments. So he rubbed up and down his back with his large hand, eyes trained on the paintings and sketches lining their walls. Warm cookies mixed with the smells of paint and oil pastels and this was home to him, Louis curled up to his chest and the London rain tapping outside and warm tea always right at their fingertips.

Louis felt the same way. His anger was gone, dissipated into the welcoming atmosphere that Harry had created for him. His night had ended in disaster; he'd been so excited about this show. He'd thought he'd put out his best work yet. Nobody in the building had thought so in the end. He'd stood there, listening to criticism after criticism, Harry there as well. He'd told him to be prepared to be blown away. What he'd meant was blown away by positive reactions, not insults.

So eventually he dragged him home, sick and tired of enduring that humiliation time and time again. He couldn't even face Harry on the train. It was awful. The second he got home he smashed every last canvas that was supposed to be a part of the collection at the gallery and he emptied himself of all the negative emotions that had overwhelmed him for most of the night. He'd known that Harry would hold him when he was done, he knew he'd be ready to do whatever it took to make Louis feel better. He knew he'd be there to welcome him home.

Finally, Louis looked up at Harry and shifted in his arms so he could rest his cheek against his shoulder, his fingers trailing up and down the black silk shirt he was wearing. "Better?" Harry murmured against his forehead, arms around him once he was settled.

"Somewhat. I'm not sure how much I can come up after that blow," Louis replied in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, kicking his shoes off so they plopped onto the floor and he could tuck his toes under the arm of the couch. Harry placed a mug of tea in his hands and he lifted it up, the steam billowing warmly against his face.

"You'll come up plenty," Harry assured him. "You always do. So you had a bad night, yeah. Sucks, doesn't feel good at all. But that doesn't discredit the incredible nights you've had, or how proud you were of the paintings you put up for those people. Art is very subjective, Lou. You should know that better than anyone. You thought those pieces were great, so they should still be great to you." Louis was staring down at his tea, thumbs rubbing along the rim mindlessly.

"I know I'm supposed to think that. However it's easier said than done."

"I know. But do you still think those paintings are great? Still think they're the best you've ever done?"

Louis didn't say anything for a long moment, closing his eyes and taking a slow sip of his drink. It was still raining and he could hear Harry's heartbeat through his dress shirt, the scent of that spicy perfume he'd gotten him for his birthday wafting up and mixing with the smells of the room. Home. 

"No."

Harry shifted a little and he grabbed Louis' mug, sitting it down. "So those paintings aren't your best work like you were telling me the entire way there? You aren't insanely proud of them?"

Louis shook his head, not meeting Harry's heated gaze. "No."

Harry was up in half a second, pulling Louis along beside him. "Then I want you to make a masterpiece," he said, leading him into his studio. Paint smeared the walls and floors angrily, canvases smashed and piled up in a corner. Paint bottles were laid randomly about the room and brushes were splayed over the ground. The results of Louis' anger and humiliation would look devastating to anybody who didn't know how resilient he was.

"Harry..." Louis trailed off a bit tiredly, ready to be done with art for the weekend at least. But Harry wasn't having any of it. He left Louis in the doorway and he moved to the center of the room, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the ground, his pants pooling around his ankles soon after. 

Louis just stood there like an idiot, his eyes probably the size of CDs, his lips parted just a bit to release a slight gust of air. Harry was a masterpiece on his own, the idiot, what did he expect him to do?

They stared at each other for a while and then Harry kicked his clothes aside. "Undress, boss man," he said, tugging his curly hair from the neat bun he'd had it in all night so it tumbled down around his shoulders. Then he moved about the room, collecting paint brushes and opaque paint bottles. By the time Louis was stripped down to his boxers, Harry was sitting on the floor, cross legged, with all of his most important supplies by his side. 

They locked gazes and slowly Louis came to understand what Harry was getting at. He went to his record player and put on his favorite piano soundtrack, making sure it was soft enough to be background music. Then he went back over to Harry and he straddled his lap. Large hands cupped his cheeks and their mouths, still tasting of expensive wine, pressed together. His own fingers curled around Harry's wrists and they stayed like that until Harry pulled away and he plucked a brush from the pile, silently placing it in Louis' fingers.

Louis got right to work, laying Harry down in a way that he could optimize the space his pale body provided. He dipped his brush into a midnight blue and he started at his throat, kissing it slowly before he carefully stroked the paint down in gentle, smooth motions. He felt Harry's gaze burning a hole in his face, but he was focused on what he was doing. Before he moved on to his shoulders he placed a kiss on his mouth, biting his lip until he felt it was puffy and red. Just the way he liked it.

Harry stayed as still as he could. The paint was cold and there was a draft coming up from the floorboards, but he wouldn't tell Louis that. He saw the passion flaring up in his eyes again, the love and appreciation he sometimes had trouble vocalizing. It was okay. Harry could just look at him and understand what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Louis needed this, and Harry kind of did too.

He couldn't see exactly what Louis was creating on him, but he trusted him. He was so gentle, his movements so relaxed and patient. Harry always got his high energy, his loud mischievousness, and his excited adoration. It was all great, incredible; but this was something different. This was a quiet, intense side of Louis that he saw only when he watched him paint from the doorway. He yearned for him to treat him like this more, to be important enough to have the respect he gave his art, but he figured that tonight would be close enough. He had the rest of their lives to get this from him outside of the art studio. He was patient. Louis was worth it.

Louis didn't really feel time pass. He felt Harry's heat beneath his fingers and he smelled the paint he was delicately fashioning on his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, his legs, his hands, his arms; anywhere he could paint him, he did. He used all shades and hues of blue and green and purple and red. A rosy night was slowly coming together, almost beautiful enough to be worthy of Harry's body. 

Louis had never been good with words. He had trouble expressing his feelings verbally and he found he struggled to channel his emotions and thoughts outside of the studio where he could simply paint them out on canvas or sketch an image directly from his head. It took him almost a year to get out three words that Harry had begged him to speak. It wasn't that he didn't love him-- in fact he'd never been more in love with anybody in his life than he was with Harry. He just struggled to get the words out. Words were uncomfortable and they disappeared the second they left one's lips.

Paintings, though, pictures and sketches and sculptures. Those lasted forever. He knew he didn't always give Harry enough. Harry lived for words and stories and songs, and Louis found him so, so beautiful because of it. But he couldn't be those things for him. He tried; he really, truly tried so hard to give Harry what he wanted because Harry was always there for him. He fixed the things he broke and he took his pranks and he loved him when he was feeling let down or hurt. Harry knew how to take care of Louis, but Louis was still struggling to find a way he could take care of Harry and be true to his actions towards him.

So he painted his love on Harry. He painted every major moment he realized he was in love, he swirled colors around that matched the colors of his heart whenever that lanky lamb stumbled around the kitchen, he added the depth of his affections wherever he could. 

Harry was his masterpiece. 

The green of his eyes, the lustre of his curls, the deep magenta color of his kiss-swollen lips. Their relationship, their love, was painted out over his long body, his soft stomach, his firm chest, his always-open arms. This was Louis' love, right here. He could never achieve something better, nor would he want to.

He didn't say any of this to Harry, he didn't let those important words disappear into their surroundings. He visualized it and painted it out on his boyfriend who was laying there looking so gorgeous for him, the love in his eyes almost palpable. Harry showed his love for Louis in every movement he made every day, in his eyes and in his actions and in his touch. This was what Louis could give him, this was it. He would always try, but his art was all for him. Every brush stroke and shade in and sketch; he knew Harry didn't know it. He knew he felt lonely sometimes when he refused to come to bed, busy working on a piece he was into. Someday he'd find a way to truly convey this to him, but for right then he had this. He had a warm lover and a cold room and lots of paint and fresh cookies and steamy tea and silent movies and haunting piano music. He could give Harry home.

He painted the last stroke of color along Harry's ankle and then he stepped back. Stars and beat up cars and canvases and picnics and kisses and embraces and love. His eyes met Harry's again and he gave him a tiny smile. 

"Want a picture?" he asked, afraid of breaking the comfortable silence that laid peacefully below the record playing. 

"Of course," Harry replied, watching Louis get up. He had paint splotches all over his soft skin and black boxers and he was so, so incredibly beautiful. Harry's heart beat several paces faster and a tiny smile played on his lips as Louis came back with his phone and a polaroid. He shut his eyes for half the pictures and kept them trained on Louis for the other half. "Am I your greatest work yet?" he asked once Louis was done and kneeling by his side.

Louis just smiled and pushed his feathery fringe back from his forehead. "Yes. And you'll be my greatest work for a very, very long time. If not forever." He watched the slow, too big smile spread over Harry's face and he gently held his chin between his fingers, kissing that grin. Once, twice, three times. He couldn't pull himself away.

I love you, Harry. I always have, and I always will. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. Love me, love me always. Please.

Harry's painted hands came up and grabbed at his waist and he was on top of him, their legs tangled together and their mouths slotted against each other. The kisses and touches were slow and patient and intense. Words Louis could never say seemed to radiate in the air around them, their love smearing out between the two of them, transferring from Harry's body to Louis'. Their hands were everywhere all at once, skin on skin on skin on skin. Louis and Harry, both, had never felt so loved in their entire lives.

They stayed like that afterwards, naked and covered in paint and curled up around each other on the floor in Louis' studio. He was tired; so, so tired. His cheek rested against Harry's painted chest. He listened to his steady heartbeat, his hand on his stomach. He was asleep, soft snores mixing peacefully with the ever ongoing rain outside. The record had ended quite a while back, the only sounds being them and the forces of nature outside and the occasional shuffle of the people in the apartment on top of them. 

The negative comments on his paintings were long forgotten, the two of them were quite the mess. Paint and sweat had mixed over their bodies and the original image would be gone forever besides in the pixelated form on their phones and in the form of a few polaroid snapshots he'd set on his workbench. But it was okay. He knew Harry understood him a little more, he knew he felt a little more appreciated. He'd needed that; they'd both needed that. And now everything was okay again. Louis was okay, Harry was even better. They loved each other.

"Home," Louis whispered up to his sleeping face, rubbing his thumb along his bottom lip. "Harry, this is home."


End file.
